The
gallery of Christ!—and even a nose bleed, to further this friction; and came
the day, a psych in a chair, to rupture my thoughts. How to live it—that
confused life, the product of minds; and oh the pictureless, to infuse the dreams,
to become objective! I mourn the silence, a woman my friend, to dig the sacred
slopes—and oh the steep cliffs; to cycle my life, to feel such pain, and
proceed forward. There’s many to speak it—this sacred volt, to imbue a kingdom;
and die this night, the nectar of splendor, a veil as a keystone. I barely
know, to feel a star, a child for divinity; to course the day, to picklock
myth, a simple conversation; to cry our lives, the windfall of sorrows, the
daydreams of joys; whereat is us, a conclave of demons, a landmark of passion. Do
you know—the wails of Christ, to scan that world, where angels drift, and birds
sing, and God casts blessings? I love it like passion, a tiny swan, a mother in
the wings; to see them flap, to lace a sandal, to mourn for Zion. I drank the
trembling, to hold for hands, a sword as recovery. Oh the rebuke, to plead the
cause, the cup of trembling; and more the streets, to see catastrophes, a child
nursing a cub; where God heard, to suddenly appear, standing in glory; and
Christ soared, to pierce the thunder, to pluck a wing; for more to moms, dying
the caged worlds, as grounded as heartache; to see us perish, that broken
kernel, as gravid as intentions; for this is life, to walk the splits, to
entertain two worlds; where Christ forgives, a mallet for a cushion, to say, I love you; where this is love, and
dusky thoughts, flung into the future.
Oh the Paraclete, to infuse the passions, that closer to an overhaul; to
see it flash, to then flinch, that further the heartbeats.
